


The Knight-Giant Hound and his Prized Princess

by prettybadmagic



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Arranged Marriage, Bladder Control, Breeding, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Forced Pregnancy, Giant Sandor, Human/Monster Romance, Hungry Hound, Loss of Virginity, Master/Pet, Non-Consensual Touching, Praise Kink, Princess Sansa, Shameless Smut, Size Difference, Size Kink, Smut, Snackable Sansa, This is all for the smut, Vore, but just wait for the angst...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-17 14:40:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29594316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettybadmagic/pseuds/prettybadmagic
Summary: Sandor Clegane is a warrior giant. At sixty feet tall, he's big for his kind, and no less savage. He spends his youth serving more highly ranked noble giants, suffering under the shadow of his brother, until he grows powerful enough to challenge him. When the Mountain perishes, Sandor earns his Keep.He also earns the right to wed a human princess.He earns the right to breed.And oh, the perfect match does come along: a fair little bird, Lady Sansa of House Stark. Watch as she grows, watch as she fruits, and watch as true love blooms! 'Til happily ever after do we part.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 35
Kudos: 102





	1. The Hound Triumphs

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Fourth Kind](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17971811) by [MalevolentReverie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalevolentReverie/pseuds/MalevolentReverie). 



> Welcome queens 👑
> 
> Oh, it's happening. From horny to hornier, what if Sandor was of a species that actually ate people? Well, I'm here to do the devil's work for him. This story is loosely inspired by The Fourth Kind by Malevolent Reverie, a masterclass in outrageous kink, and y'all know I like to play too. Here's what to expect: first of all, mega size difference, because, _yes_. Also, a language barrier. Giants speak the Old Tongue. Princesses speak Princess (aka Finnish, crudely translated as we go!). Add in forced marriage to an underage (16 year old) girl, and what do you get? 
> 
> **NO LEGITIMATE CONSENT WHATSOEVER!**
> 
> Please be cautious and read at will. I'm going to work very diligently to tag as we go and add warnings before chapters as needed. Sandor's not gonna torture the poor girl, but he's certainly got an appetite. I have a general direction for this story, though it is largely unplotted, and I plan to draft as I go. Just a lil horny fun here, won't be too long. The good news is it's me, so you can expect a happy ending. You can also expect me to promise mostly smut and fluff and you will still end up with angst! Can't stop won't stop. 
> 
> Cool, well, here we go. Twisted fairy tale time! 
> 
> Enjoy!

## The Knight-Giant Hound and his Prized Princess

#### (aka Pretty Pet Princess)

##### As transcribed by quack folklorist P.B. Magic

 **Once upon a time** there was a knight-giant known as Hound. Born Sandor of House Clegane, it was he who burned in the brazier at the age of seven at the hand of his brother, the elder knight-giant Mountain, so aptly named for his legendary size and obdurance. The Hound delivered his requital five and twenty years later in formal combat trial. Dog and Rock clashed greatsword to greatsword, Brightroar to Blackfyre. Where the Mountain had might, the Hound had heart. 

Heart triumphed. 

Brightroar slipped so sweetly between helm and gorget to spill rivers of shared blood. Off to Valyria! where Mountains may live or die thus. That glorious day, the Hound split the paled corpse of his brother to a clean fourteen pieces, one each for the Fourteen Flames. As he shoved the chunks into eager magmatic chasms, the wilted cock especially, he laughed thunder from ashen storm clouds and boulders from perilous ledges. The black sky filled smoke-meat sweet, for as we all know, no fumes taste so sweet as revenge. For that glorious day, the Hound conquered his fear of fraternal fire and thus earned his Keep. 

Most importantly, he won a knight-giant's fair due: the hand, and fecund womb, of a human princess. 

This is where our story begins. 

But first, some context. 

The realm of giants, and their knights, lords, and king, exists high above the worlds of their puny human vassals. Three knights keep watch of Westeros: the Hound, Darkstar, and Brienne of Tarth. What other worlds have giant-keepers? Read on, and you shall see! For now, I will tell you this: the giants are ruled by the ever chaotic god-king, Loki. 

Clegane's Keep is a quaint tower house that sprouts like a stone trunk from Lost Lake. Around its now-crumbling outer wall wraps a ring of crystal water, and beyond that, miles and miles of hills roll like a golden sea. It is the envy of no giant, boasting a mere four stories, a cellar, and a modest gatehouse. But it is the great love of Sandor, for here he suckled and weaned, here he knew Mother, who taught him of courage, heart, and honor above all! But Mother is gone, Father and Sister too. There is a great darkness of giant-kind: the girl children are put to slaughter. Infertile! Ugly! Bar none, useless! Giants slake bloodthirst with thine own blood, so at birth girls eat first a blade. After bearing Mountain and Hound, Mother bore great shame. She was big with child, this Sandor scarcely remembers, and one night, after much fuss from the uppermost floor, there was grave quiet. 

"A sister," Big Brother said. He patted his belly and licked his lips. "Father did for them." 

Sandor found he was not so sad when Father died in a manhunt. 

Now our freshly minted knight-giant rules his keep, alone but for his thralls, a motley lot of human men, plumped on giant's spoils. Yes, magic is alive and well! Eat the crops of giant fields and ye should grow stalkier—in Clegane lands, we harvest poppies. Sandor dines on petal paste, drinks the floral milk. He stands a proud sixty feet, and his human underlings, who toil over this precious crop, scrape a scant forty. There are limits, after all. The humans below the clouds sow princesses and serfs and are thus spared; the giants end wars with near effortless boot stomps and greatsword blights. Curry favor—or else! I would call this symbiosis. 

For a quarter moon after his victory, Sandor entertains a deluge of visitors. He sits at the end of his great oak table, large enough for ten giants to feast, in his armor and surcoat, colored gold like the hills with three black hounds afield. There are well wishers, witches, warlocks, and wizards. They bring first and foremost congratulations: hail the knight-giant Hound! It is, as always, critical to bend the knee. In come offerings: silver and jewels, the laces of Myr, the perfumes of Lys, exotic red pods from Sothyros with roastable seeds, and a mushroom, a mushroom says the Ghost of High Heart, that is very magical indeed. 

But our Hound cares for one guest, the matchmaker called Varys. He roams the giant realm with a vast catalogue of princesses. He knows the finest bred; he knows exactly how a knight can use perfumes and laces! On the seventh day Varys comes in silk robes, rotund and egg-bald, reeking of rosewater. He pads on slippered feet to the Hound's very side. 

_Thunk!_ goes the tome in a cloud of dust. It's leatherbound, a foot tall, embossed with the word _Prinsessa._ Like all giants, Sandor knows only the Old Tongue. As for Princess Speak, he will have to learn. 

If he so chooses. 

He will take, and his princess will give. That is the way. Princesses are born to curtsy, charm, and conceive. Pretty little things, ripe for breeding. Sandor saw one once, from the battlefield, with flaxen hair and eyes of emerald, slender as reed, weeping, of course, in her tall tower. Better that princesses aren't seen! The lesser giant brothers tend to prowl; appetites unchecked, they might unrightfully devour—and that's not to mention dragons! But this particular princess had a brother, Sandor knows. This brother lives next door at Evenfall Hall, a true-blooded prince wed to the realm's sole lady giant. Brienne the Beauty, Maid of Tarth, lady-knight-giant, spared by Loki and Loki alone. "She will conquer and she will conceive," he's said to have said. Lo and behold, Brienne and her golden princeling shepherd a five son flock! 

As for the sister princess? 

Sandor turns pages thick and stiff as cracker bread, spilling yellow paper crumbs in his haste. "Who do you seek, Good Ser?" Varys asks. 

"Golden hair," the Hound grunts. "Green eyes. Sad." 

"Ah, you seek fair Cersei," Varys says. "It is with great sorrow I must inform you she was wedded to a human king, and is tragically dead. Besides, I have much younger models, and if it pleases you…" the eunuch mummer slides three pudgy fingers into the meat of his book and cleaves it open. "These are our… _melancholy_ types. Any match here would constitute a rescue." 

Rescue! A heart the size of a wheelhouse throws itself against rigid breastplate. Sandor knows of human knights. They terrorize the giants: climbing on beanstalks, sprouting wings, and worst of all, sculpting stairs from clouds. They invade the castles of the giant realm to reclaim their little women. Rescue, they call it. True love's first kiss! Father called it hogslop, but Mother had kept her princess tales from her life before. She read them to Sandor in secret by warm candleglow. Chivalry, she said, is most important of all. 

Sandor has forgotten what that means. Was it a princess word? 

He doesn't have Mother's books anymore. While he was off serving lord-giants, the Mountain gave the brazier treatment to the lot. 

Worry not, as he browses, more slowly now, through colorful portraits of premium Westerosi stock, he finds his princess: hair of ember, skin of snow, eyes like two sapphires. Sandor sticks a dirty-nailed finger to her button nose. "This one," he says. "Why is she sad?" 

"Excellent taste, Ser," Varys clucks. "This poor maiden has lost her parents in the most recent war. Worse yet, her betrothal came to an untimely end, and in her prince's stead, she was forced to marry his uncle imp." 

An imp! No creature more low, literally. Sandor growls, as Hounds do, and Varys quickly adds, "Happily their marriage went unconsummated. She remains chaste, but time is of the essence. She's been burgled to the Vale by the cunning Lord Baelish—he claims her as his natural daughter, and erstwhile makes plans to wed her himself!"

Sandor stares at paper sapphire likenesses drenched in sorrow. "What is she called?" he asks. 

"Lady Sansa of House Stark, if it pleases you." 

"Sansa…" The name flickers like cold flame on his tongue. Is this how pretty tastes? He decides: 

"I'll rescue her." 

"Very well, Ser! A thousand golden dragons, and we'll consider it done!" 

How does the rescue unfold? Beloved reader, I beg of you, tune in next time!


	2. Princess Sansa's Daring Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hound rescues his little princess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Here's a tiny baby chapter because that's just how it's gotta be, lol. CW for light gore because yeah Sandor's already gonna be thinking hungry giant thoughts and slaying lil men.

_Princesses, oh princesses! How fair are thee, fair enough to constitute a new species!_ __  
_Bred for their grace, courtesy, and docility, they make a giant's perfect bride:  
__Fertile, pliant, pretty above all! Through a princess's womb, giant seed will surely grow tall!_

Well, they don't have a choice. On with the monsters! 

Upon exchanging a fat sack of coins, Varys gave the Hound three treasures: a map, rescue instructions, and the standard princess guidebook, _Your Prized Princess and You: A Giant’s Duty_. Sandor perused—literacy isn’t quite esteemed in the giant realm—but the first and most boldly displayed rule, on a page of full bright ink, stuck.

_DO NOT EAT YOUR PRINCESS_

Easy enough. 

So the next morning, the Hound suits up. He follows the map, parts the clouds over the Mountains of the Moon, and rides to the tallest peak astride Stranger, his loyal horse-giant. There sits his target: the Eyrie, seven white towers trenched into the mountainside below. _Make note of the peak’s tip_ , say the instructions. _It may come in handy_. The Hound knows a killing device when he sees one. _Snap!_ Off comes a perfect lance of ice and stone, twice his height, which he dutifully schlepps downhill. 

Oh, the alarm sounds! Flaming arrows fly and ping off the Hound’s armor like gnats. One leap over a narrow bridge of rock, lance forward, and the gates are dust. The Hound stirs up the castle’s guts, then dismounts to discard the bowmen, one by one, into the white-haze valley below. He storms past the rubble to the snowy central yard, and ankle-biting swordsmen soon join their brethren at arms. 

The castle is clear. Now, seven glittering towers to choose from. The Hound stands at height with the lot, so he lifts his visor, and, heart thundering, puts an eye to each one. 

There she is, in the tower easternmost! He clobbers the roof with one gauntlet-fisted punch to expose a round bedchamber, fine as they come. _Pretty._ Sandor likes his glimpse of his prize, though she cowers in the corner, and what’s this? 

There’s another man inside. 

The Hound plucks him by the cloak. He’s a pitiful human thing, with silver hair, and the world’s ugliest goatee. Sandor bites off his head and spits it out, flings the corpse to Gods-know-where. His princess screams, but it’s a pretty sound, a sort of bird-sing. Time to plunder. The instructions say to take it all—princesses are fickle pets that require familiar finery. So Sandor opens up his leather pouch and tosses in the lot: wardrobe, trunk, bed, table, chairs, and mirror. Tapestries, drapery, rugs, candelabras, vases, goblets, plates, books, even her chamberpot. Last comes the most important treasure: the girl herself. 

_DO NOT CRUSH OR MAIM, OR YOU’LL BE SORRY_

Sandor remembers that rule too. So gently now, gently, he scoops the princess in two steel palms and inspects her. She looks like a little frostfire, with shiny flame hair to her hips, and gown of white silk. She weeps and wriggles, searching for a way out. But no! Sandor would hate to see her plummet to the bottomless valley of mist. He pinches her silks and lifts her to eye level. “I won’t eat you, little princess,” he tells her. "This is rescue.” But she cries on, and water spills from her skirts. Oh, she’s frightened. Princesses hate a mess so Sandor brings her to his mouth: he’s going to drink her water, that’s it. But it’s a honey glaze on supple meat. Sandor’s tongue does a little exploring up her thighs, to the pinkness inbetween. _A bite,_ he thinks. _Just a toe, or a foot_. 

But he pulls the girl from his maw because he remembers: he’s no Gregor. 

_KEEP YOUR PRINCESS CLOSE_

The Hound has another pouch for that, a pouch of golden silk, hung round his gorget to rest on his breastbone. He slides the girl in, but doesn’t pull the drawstring. Her little fiery head pokes out, still sorrow-kissed. As he takes to the saddle and trots up the mountain, he wonders if he hasn’t the wrong girl. She looks the same as the portrait of course, but she chirps like a little bird. Oh, but it's Princess Tongue! Music to Sandor’s ears, a high-pitched warble, that sings him through clouds, over the hills, and all the way home. He peeks down at his sad pet often. He feels softly for her. “I won’t eat you,” he finds it necessary to repeat. “I’m going to keep you, little bird.” 

And even at distance, her pretty stench is distinct: a bouquet of flowers, honeyed cake, and the sweetest mead. She’s bite-sized, undoubtedly a delicacy. But Sandor needs her blood for more than its sugar. His cock is another lance, sheathed stiff beneath his mail. When she's sprouted on poppy's milk and grown as can be, she'll be promptly impaled. Two bloods will combine, giant and human, as one. 

Above all else, the Hound wants his sons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next part is drafted and will be up soon! Dinner, and for dessert? Perhaps a little bird...


End file.
